


Survive the Night

by TheMidnightOwl



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Fireworks, Gen, Holiday, New Years, New Years Eve, What else is new, celebration, happy new year, joker's an asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 02:46:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13226523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMidnightOwl/pseuds/TheMidnightOwl
Summary: Joker is wearing the face of a child, mesmerized by the color and sound like he’s never seen fireworks before.  The light dances in his wide eyes.  This isn’t the giddiness he has when he’s terrorizing the city, or pulling a ridiculous prank, or fighting with Batman, or tearing the GCPD in half.  He’s just… happy.





	Survive the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year! May your 2018 be happy and healthy and full of nerd stuff.
> 
> EDIT: holy shit guys I'm floored right now a beautiful soul made fanart for this fic! Check it out on their Tumblr it's stunning, the colors aaaaaahh --> https://toriirdz.tumblr.com/post/169679889743/survive-the-night-by-themidnightowl

If you live in a warm climate, you cannot comprehend cold.  If your cold is 70 degrees Fahrenheit and you’ve never felt any colder, you cannot prepare yourself for a winter climate that drops below freezing and stays there for four months.  When you have never experienced true cold, you cannot ever be fully prepared for that dry air, that biting wind that wasters your eyes, the burn in your hands, and the numbness of your feet and all exposed skin.  Winter climates are not for the faint of heart.

Gotham City, especially, has a winter only acclimatized locals know how to tolerate.  Those that cannot adapt to her, do not last.  In all aspects.

Bruce knows this cold.  It’s an old friend.  When he was young he played in the snow from dawn to dusk.  When his parents died, all he felt for years was numbness.  When he began his training, he lived in the cold for years, pushing his body to its limits, challenging them, redefining them.  In the sweltering head and the freezing cold, he must not be affected.  The batsuit is built for both ends of extreme weather, but should the thermal layer crack and weaken or the coolants fail he must retain full composure. 

Christmas was quiet.  One might expect that the colorful super villains of Gotham’s underbelly would love festivities, but for the most part they’re surprisingly dormant on holidays.  So, at Alfred’s insistence, he allowed himself dinner with the family.  His comm stayed in his ear.  But it remained silent for the duration of the meal.  After that, he and Tim and Dick - because none of them would ever travel without their suits - went on patrol.  Barbara was left alone; it’s been too long since she and Jim had a proper, uninterrupted Christmas.  They all went out so the two of them wouldn’t need to.  A theft here, vandalism there, drunkards and a bizarre display of public indecency; no reason to call them. 

There are two holidays that always have him on high alert: Independence Day and New Years.  They are both celebrated with fireworks, and he knows of one colorful pyromaniac that loves igniting fireworks, among other combustibles.  Thus far, Joker has never “celebrated” either of them on the day of, but there will come a day where day of becomes the less predictable.  Which is why, every year, Bruce is ready for a firestorm.

The cold tonight is merciless.  Barely 12 degrees Fahrenheit, with a wind chill of -3.  Even for a native, the negatives are fucking cold.  He feels the breeze through the gaps in the armor.  The thermal layer keeps him warm, but he can feel the ghost of what could be a full day’s recovery from the weather’s might.  Much as he adopted the shadows, he was raised with an endless chill in his blood.  The cold can’t touch him, can’t do what it does to the Gothamites below, hurrying home, arms crossed over their chests, thick winter coats puffing out from all angles. 

He sees a river of bobble hats and large, fur-rimmed hoods.  A scant few walk comfortably with hands in pockets and smooth strides.  Most likely they were originally born in a mountain climate, which is technically the region Gotham inhabits.  The ocean breeze stings the eyes of Gotham inhabitants with salt.  The mountain breeze of the north brings with it the ever-colder air from the upper atmosphere, and, on occasion, a Nor’easter.  Perhaps he should go north sometime, for a comparison.  

One stroller in particular catches his attention.  With the limited ocular zoom in the cowl’s lenses, he sees that the coat is a plum purple, the faux fur lining the hood a few shades lighter.  Average height, build indiscernible with the bulk of the coat.  A coat that looks very familiar.  No, not average build.  The person stretches and reveals the height they were trying to hide.  He follows from above. 

The odds of this character being Joker are slim, but he trusts his instincts.  The long, slow strides, the set of the shoulders; if it’s not Joker, it’s still somebody.  He grapples to another building.  The clouded sky makes him invisible from below.  The hunter in the shadows.

He follows the figure through some of Gotham’s rougher streets, still with slow, confident strides.  But then they turn themselves around, and again, and again.  Covering their tracks, or trying to shake a tail.  He’s uncertain if they’ve detected him.  Apart from this they have not exhibited any signs of anxiety or change of body language.  After a third detour, they make for the quieter streets of the outer city limits.  Their chosen building has a medium stoop and a keypad for the security door.  He switches the lenses to detective vision.  They take the stairs.  Unlock a door.  The hood comes off.  At this distance, a window shot would do little for identification.  Despite the narrow chance of this person knowing anything, Bruce can’t shake the feeling that there’s something there, hidden underneath the winter gear and false height.

He observes through the false color image for a while.  Their home mannerisms are more natural.  He looks for any movement that could mean paraphernalia.  After this many years, he knows the difference between organizing the drawer and stashing money or drugs.  Nothing happens.  Eventually he concedes that watching someone innocent is chance for a guilty person to get away.  He makes note of the address and leaves.

At the end of the night, with the sun on the horizon, Bruce researches the apartment building.  The blueprints of the most recent renovation provide the apartment number.  He searches all occupants within the last twenty years.  Current resident is Kayla Morales, 29, single, no kids.  Her salary does not reflect the cost of her residence.  A quick background search contains minimal information.  He digs.  She changed her name at 18.  Her birth name was Miguel Rodriguez.  She went to New York University, riding mostly on loans.  When he searches her family background, he runs a hand down his face.  Her parents founded and own a major fireworks manufacturing business.

Tomorrow night he’s making a house call.

 

—————

 

The further he dug into Kayla’s family history, the more certain he became that she knows Joker.  Her parents pay her rent but didn’t cosign her student loans; her aunts did.  They’re the only blood family listed on her medical emergency contact list.  The rent thing feels like one last olive branch.  Trying not to lose their only daughter entirely to their personal shortcomings.  She graduated with high honors and has a mass of student debt on her shoulders.  If her second major is anything to judge by, she has extensive knowledge of the family business.  Intending to take over once her parents retire, or become a competitor?  

“Only in a place like NYU can you double major in dynamic chemistry and clinical psychology,” he mumbles to himself.  Social worker by day, chemist by night.  He hopes she will cooperate.

He opts for the hidden figure approach.  With no factual evidence that she’s done harm, there’s no need for a show of strength.  He waits for her in the shadows of her bedroom.  When she turns on the lights, she screams, but falls into a defensive stance.  She’s had some training.  Smart.  

“Holy hell man,” she pants, “what, are they sending in the debt collectors already?”

“Do I look like I work in finances,” he deadpans.

She exhales, and runs her fingers through raven black hair, relaxing.  “Well, you work with _someone’s_ wallet.”

He cocks his head.  “That coat you’re wearing.  Who gave it to you?”

She shrugs it off and hangs it on the open door.  “I bought it.  Patagonia.  $135.  You want a receipt?" 

“Convincing lie, to anyone else.  There’s no logo and nothing in their current line matches that design.” 

She snorts.  “Fashionista, aren’t you?  You seriously broke into my house to ask me about my coat?  If the police wouldn’t take your side over mine I’d put those stand your ground laws to the test.”

She is a registered firearm owner.  Again, smart.  “That jacket is identical to one I saw on the Joker three years ago.  Custom job, all of his clothes are, and unique.  Either you stole it - in which case you’d be dead - or he gave it to you.  There are no good reasons that make him give gifts.”

Her facade doesn’t falter, but she does swallow.  “I never took you for a paranoid person, but actually that makes so much more sense." 

“Kayla,” he steps forward, keeping his tone level.  “Whatever you’re in for, he won’t let you go after.  No one quits on him.  No one leaves unless it’s in a body bag.  You’ve got debts, I understand, and I know what desperation feels like, but this is the wrong way.  The only guarantee you get with working for him is that you’ll eventually be killed, in one way or another.” 

Her expression turns hard, but her eyes are apprehensive.  “You have no idea what I’ve gone through to get here.” 

“No, I don’t, he secedes, “but I know where this path leads, and it never ends well.”

She sighs and sits on her bad.  She looks exhausted.  “My parents have money.  I went to school on my own dollar because I don’t want any of theirs.  But NYU ain’t cheap, man.  I don’t regret not taking their money but I do regret not thinking before signing those loans.  But it is what it is.  And it sucks.  And for the record,” she sighs again, “you’re gonna haul me to jail anyway so fuck it, _he_ found _me._   I didn’t go out looking for trouble, trouble found me on my way home from work.  It pulled a potato sack over my head, loaded me into a truck and zip-tied me, and when they took it off I was staring at a pair of spats.”  She snorts again.  “Were I kidnapped by anyone else I’da made fun of him.  Fucking spats.  Anyway, he wanted fireworks.  Lots of them.  I don’t know how he found out who I’m related to, but he did.  I told him I don’t have a relationship with my parents, and I dared him to guess why.”

She pauses, reflecting.  Something in her eyes softens.  “He… told his men to go away.  He took me to some tiny kitchenette and he made me Keurig hot chocolate, of all things.  I shit you not, we sat down and just _talked._   He told me all he needed from me was access.  Just a way to get passed the security at my parents’ factory.  I was scared to say no to him, even though he was being so nice.  So I, I didn’t want to talk to my parents, but I got ahold of my uncle, he helped build the factory, and, uh, asked him about the new security over a couple drinks.”  She turns her head away at that.  “I figured it’d serve them right.  All the terrible things they did to me, a few loads of TNT going missing wouldn’t even put a dent in them, but it’d give them a scare.  Especially if he showed up on the security cams.”

“And what about the security guards?”  Bruce demands.  “Did you consider their safety?” 

“Yes,” she snaps back, whole body defensive.  “My folks are stupidly religious.  They don’t make anyone work on Christmas.  I told him his best chance would be Christmas or Christmas Eve, because no one’s there to press the panic button.  I wanted to hurt my _parents,_ not good people.”  She gets up.  “Can you leave now, please?  I need a shower and a scotch.  Or if you’re hauling me downtown can you wait until after I’ve had a shower and a scotch?” 

He opts for silence and makes his exit… but hesitates by the window.  Without turning around, he says, “if he’s being nice to you, your first mistake could kill you.” 

He hears a door open and a shower start.  “Wouldn’t be the first time honesty almost got me killed.” 

He can respect that.  He turns his head to look at her once last time.  “What did he say to you that made you call it nice?” 

She’s leaning against the doorframe, body mostly blocked behind it.  She snorts.  “Nothing you’d understand.  Unless your face isn’t the only secret you’re keeping under there.” 

He nods once.  There’s no need to press that further.  He slips something out of his belt and rests it on her nightstand.  “If you no longer feel safe in whatever he needs from you, press this, and I will come for you.” 

His back to her means he misses her small smile.  “I appreciate it.  Now seriously, get out.” 

His back to her means she misses his smile.

 

—————

 

He’s out of time. 

He interrogated the Morales family.  The amount of explosives Joker stole could be enough to set a quarter of the city ablaze if he doesn’t shoot them skywards.  He’s concerned about how many will not be aimed up.  Their design may be deterrents to keep the police and first responders at bay, or otherwise occupied, for a different attack.  It’s hard to know what exactly he is planning, but the Joker freshly restocked with one of his favorite toys is never good for Gotham.  Or Bruce’s migraines.

He searches tirelessly.  Interrogates thugs, former thugs, and the shadier cops.  He questions the homeless and street walkers, but none of them have seen anything.  He’s keeping well underground.  When Joker doesn’t want to be found, Joker can’t be found, and it’s maddening.  Bruce can find every one of the colorful and commonplace criminals in this city no matter where they hide, but Joker disappears like a whisper on the wind.  He’s never had reason to believe Joker ever ducks down outside of Gotham, but he hasn’t ruled it out. 

 _“Batman,”_ Tim says over the com, _“I think I’ve got something.  Saint Michael’s bell tower.  One of the boards is missing.”_  

“On my way,” Bruce tailspins for the church.  The bell tower was boarded up for repairs about six weeks ago.  There was scaffolding but the church postponed the repair when the first day of negative temperature weather graced the city. 

 _“There’s definitely someone in there,”_ Tim observes, _“why would he back himself into a corner?”_  

“It’s a trap,” Bruce says, “do not move in without me.” 

 _“I’m just gonna get a little closer.  See what he left for us.”_  

“Robin, no!” 

He slams the gas.  In this moment Gotham’s grid becomes inconvenient.  He peels through one way streets to come at the tower from behind.  He flings himself out of the car in time to watch Tim swing to a closer rooftop.  A fray of high caliber rounds attacks him from the open wall, narrowly missing his evasion.  But it turns with him.   

“Robin, don’t-” 

Tim jumps in the direction of the bell tower.  A motion detector detonates, sending brick and steel and one costumed teenager flying in a 30 foot radius.  Bruce rushes to him.  The memories play on a mental projector and he shakes them off.   

Tim is coughing the dust out of his lungs.  His suit is torn, his skin is bloodied, his ears are no doubt ringing, and he’ll have one hell of a headache for the rest of the night, but he’s fine. 

“Next time don’t jump towards the thing that’s shooting at you.”  Bruce helps him up with no shortage of amusement. 

“Oh yeah?  Take your own advice sometime,” Tim brushes dust off his shoulder towards Bruce’s face.  “So, how long do you think we have until the real fun starts?” 

Clattering in the background meets Bruce’s attention.  Three Joker teeth are bouncing around, two with only one leg each and one missing a few teeth.  Miraculously all of their tags stayed intact.  Likely flame retardant.  They pick them up, snap them in half to stop the infuriating motion, and open the cards. 

“Fantastic,” Tim exhales.  

MADE YOU LOOK! 

Bruce examines the toy.  On the roof of the mouth, raised plastic lines form a brand that does not belong to a toy manufacturer.  It looks like the logo for the Gotham Royal Hotel. 

“Find out what you can from whatever’s left here,” he commands, dropping the teeth. 

“Yeah yeah,” Tim waves a dismissive hand with a smug attitude.  “You’ve got the look.  ‘I know where he is,’ ‘I’ll handle him.’”  Bruce levels him a hard stare.  He responds with a hard grin.  “Have fun.  Use protection.”  He grapples to the new, shorter top of the bell tower to keep the last word.  Bruce stares after in abject horror and hot cheeks. 

The tires scream under his feet when he drives away.  The hotel is on the other side of town; he may not reach it in time.  He alerts Gordon but the police department is a ways from the hotel as well.  The decoy is almost always a timer start, but the duration is always random, and Joker isn’t always fond of revealing it.  If it’s a taunt, a show of skill, he’ll be too late.  But if it’s a game, a dance, he has a chance.  Joker’s sentimental tendencies may lean in his favor. 

Outwardly, the hotel looks fine.  Glossy and pristine straight out of a magazine, it’s one of Gotham’s most expensive properties, hotel or otherwise.  There are bellhops out front dressed for the cold but still looking smart.  The awning is equipped with heat lamps to provide warmth as well as light.  The Christmas decorations have not come down yet.  The ballroom on the twentieth story is dancing with light; someone’s celebration.  The place will be swimming with innocent lives.   

He screeches to a halt and jumps out the roof while it’s still opening.  He shouts at the front security to evacuate the building.  He blows open one of the elevator doors and grapples up as far as he can.  Then again and again to get to the top floor.  It’s always the top floor.   

He blasts his way through the doors again.  No need for stealth.  The elevator opens directly into the penthouse suite: a two level, open ceiling masterpiece of marble and gold.  Everything about the space screams to luxury.  There’s a fountain of an angel in between the double winding staircase that lead to the bed area.  The living room is modestly furnished with top brands, and the entire east wall is glass.  The view of the city is breathtaking, the buildings stretching towards the water, as if reaching out.  The faint glint of the mainland dots the horizon, feeling worlds away but close enough to touch at the same time.  Joker is there, staring out, hands clasped behind his back.  Poised and proper, waiting for his playmate.  Or dance partner.  Whatever tonight is. 

He twists his neck just enough to eye Bruce, and then turns his shoulders to face, all long limbs and grace.  “Evening, Bats,” he says too formally. 

“Give it up, Joker,” Bruce stalks forward, “wherever you think you’re going to run, you won’t reach it.  You’re leaving this building in cuffs or you’re going down with it.” 

Hands flying to his mouth, Joker gasps.  “Oh my!  What ever shall I do?  You’ve got me, Bats!  I can’t possibly push the button now!  Oh wait, I just remembered,” he pulls a radio from his pocket.  “I’m insane.”   

Bruce lunges.  Not in time to stop him from giving the order.  He lands four solid hits in a row, the last knocking the clown on his sorry ass.  Laughing, Joker holds up his hands in surrender.  “Stop it, Bats,” he giggles, “you’re gonna make us miss it.  Look!”   

Bruce follows his gesture out the window just in time to see the first firework.  Two more explode half a second behind.  Over the harbor.  They’re coming from a barge one hundred yards off the docks.   

Joker clambers to his feet, brushing himself off despite the immaculately waxed floors.  “Apparently this atrocious city lost its funding for its New Years Eve fireworks show,” Joker sneers, “Completely uncalled for.  I _love_ fireworks.  And the people do deserve a proper celebration for surviving a whole ‘nother year, don’t you think?” 

Bruce stares out in bewilderment.  “You stole over 200 pounds of explosives, to put on Gotham’s fireworks show?”

Joker stares him dead in the eye, possibly more sincere than Bruce has seen him.  “I.  Love.  Fireworks.”  With a satisfied smile, Joker skips to the couch, tugs on it roughly to turn it towards the window; the legs protest the change with a screech that he ignores.  Once positioned, he flops down like an excited child, and pats the seat next to him.  Bruce doesn’t move.  Joker rolls his head. 

“Oh, come on, _Bats,_ lighten up.  Take a load off, hang your cape up, take your shoes off.  Hell, take everything off, I won’t complain.”  His laugh is as lewd as his words.  “It’s a _holiday,_ you’re supposed to relax, you idiot.” 

“There is nothing about this that’s relaxing.” 

Joker makes a mocking sound and waves an arm, then unwinds and reclines.  “Like we’ve never had our moments.  But fine, stand there and rust in the cold like a sexier tin man.  I’m going to enjoy the fruits of my uncharacteristically harmless labor.” 

Bruce is still suspicious.  Tim’s words come to mind again, and only confuse him further.  They have had moments, he and Joker.  And he remembers them well.  Moments when Bruce peaked behind the walls of his showmanship and ego to see the human being hidden somewhere deep below.  Moments when Joker almost seemed to want to stop the violence, stop the game.  Moments when he sounded like he wanted help.  In many ways, those moments truly define their relationship.  When they are on common, equal ground, their lives for just a few minutes stabilized, they don’t hate each other.   

Bruce doesn’t sit.  He moves to stand closer to the couch but keeps out of the clown’s reach.  The show is lasting; however much Joker stole is easily double the city’s budget, even during its better years.  Every color on the spectrum, and they’re getting bigger and louder.  There’s a crescendo of three large gold ones, two that sparkle and crackle at the ends and one that cascades down like a waterfall before shimmering away.  Memories of fireworks shows with his parents flash without warning.  Those were always mother’s favorites.  The chill in the air dissipates. 

“Did you kill anyone to get the fireworks?”

 “Nope.” 

“Did you kill anyone to get up here?” 

“Nope.” 

“Are you lying?” 

“Will you believe me if I say no a third time?” 

Inwardly, Bruce smiles at that.  Ordinarily he would never trust Joker to his word, despite the knowledge that Joker has rarely ever outright lied to him.  Twisted the truth certainly, but the clown prides himself on only ever being honest with Batman.  So, in an uncharacteristically peaceful gesture, he sits, and watches.

Joker is wearing the face of a child, mesmerized by the color and sound like he’s never seen or heard them before.  The light dances in his wide eyes.  His smile widens slightly when the succession of booming make a pleasing rhythm.  This isn’t the giddiness he has when he’s terrorizing the city, or pulling a ridiculous prank, or fighting with Batman, or tearing the GCPD in half.  He’s just… happy. 

“The first time I went to the fireworks, I tried to swim to the barge,” Joker starts saying.  “I was just a little thing, all chubby cheeks and stubby legs.  I didn’t know what they were called so I named them sparkle-booms.  So me and the ‘rents are sitting on a blanket in a park in some suburban neighborhood, wherever it was we lived.  The beach is right in front of us and the barge doesn’t look like it’s that far away.  It couldn’t be that far because the sparkle-booms were so close, right?  So dumb little me gets up and decides to go find the sparkle-booms.”  He starts giggling.  “Mommy’s not paying attention because she’s got a nice big bottle of wine to polish off mostly by herself and papa’s off flirting with a minor.  So I get to the edge of the grass and jump down onto the sand and start swimming.  Thought I was a good swimmer but the waves were something else that night.”  He stops a moment to stretch his muscles as if he’s reliving the strain of the swim.  A few of his joints pop in time with the explosions.  “By absolute chance there was a lifeguard amongst the crowd that night who noticed this pipsqueak struggling against the waves and jumps on in.  I never got to the barge.  Kinda hated the lifeguard for it.” 

Bruce digests the information.  “Whose story is that?” 

Joker laughs, loud and genuine and almost beautiful.  “Good question.  May have been one of those 4am Lifetime movies.  I can never remember.” 

He knows what Joker means by that.  Over the years he came to accept that Joker honestly does not remember.  He wonders, not for the first time, if it ever truly bothers him that he does not know a thing about his past. 

“Ooh, ooh, here comes the grand finale!”  He scoots forward to the edge of the couch, his leg bouncing and his fists clenched in excitement.  Bruce’s attention is mostly on the clown’s display until he hears it.  The boom that is not the right boom. 

Out the right side of the wall of windows, a building about twenty floors shorter than theirs erupts from the lower floors up.  Joker leaps to his feet, jumping up and down and laughing.  He claps and laughs, points at the crumbling structure and laughs some more.  Fireworks skyrocket and explode from every angle, showering onto the buildings below.  The barely visible red and blue flashing lights move, and lose numbers.   

“You should see your face!”  Joker almost can’t breathe through his laughter.  “I thought Gotham should start 2018 off with a bang!  Happy New Year, Bats!” 

“You maniac!”  Bruce grabs at him.  He only catches one leg, but it’s enough to put Joker on his back.  Joker bangs his head and laughs.  The free leg kicks Bruce in the chin, clashing his jaw.  He doesn’t realize it loosened his grip until Joker is free.  A solid punch to the gut keeps him from getting away.  It’s enough to get Bruce back on his feet to land more.  Through the dizziness and the bruises the insufferable murderer laughs and laughs.  Bruce can hear the mockery it, the triumph of the man who kills recklessly because he has no value for human life.  He sees it all as pointless, and mocks Bruce with his ability to kill dozens at a time whenever he wants, because no one can keep him.  That laugh plagues his nightmares because it always comes back.   

To think just minutes ago he thought it beautiful.   

Foolish.  Kindness and peace are lost in this fallacious excuse for a human being.  It frustrates Bruce beyond comprehension how even now he can still fall for the madman’s allure.  He punches with more vigor.  Still, the clown laughs.   

A hard kick turns to a stomp, pinning joker to the ground with a foot strong and willing enough to snap his sternum.  “How many lives did you just take.” 

Joker folds his arms behind his head.  “Forgot to count.”  Bruce snaps one of his ribs.  His howl of pain flows into amusement.   

Enraged, Bruce kicks him onto his stomach via the broken rib and traps him between his legs.  Joker shivers and stretches his smile impossibly wider.  “Ooh, you got me where you want me, don’t you?  We could do so much in this position.”  He laughs in pleasure as Bruce violently cuffs him.  “We could have so much fun.  I could show you things you’ve never imagined.”  Bruce lifts him off the ground by his clothes, earning an offended squeak.  “I just dry-cleaned these, you heathen!” 

Bruce chucks him into the fountain and holds him down while he thrashes.  Pulling him up by his collar, Bruce plants him shakily on his feet and pushes him forward.  Joker sputters and coughs.  He wipes off his face and pushes his green hair back with a snicker.  “Well played.” 

Outside, he takes his time loading Joker into the car.  Holding him by the cuffs, he gives Gordon his statement and details the bombings, including the church.  Once Joker is shivering enough, he drags him over to the batmobile and drops him in. 

Joker pulls his knees up and wraps his arms around his legs, trying to get warm.  Bruce secretly, silently, tuns the heat on high.  Joker’s teeth chatter like one of his toys and his breath is too wispy to form a laugh.  The intake doctor at Arkham will scold him for letting Joker get wet in this cold and he won’t care.  For all the coldness he demonstrated tonight, he deserves it. 

The cold has taught him many things, the most important being that he is still alive.  In the cold he is reminded of his breath, his muscles, his bones, his beating heart.  He remembers the difference between life and death, because the sting of the wind and the dryness in his lungs means that he’s still alive.  He never feared the cold.  He never ran from it.  He embraced it as part of life, and in turn the cold promised that wherever it finds him, he’ll know he’s alive.  

 

In five days he will learn that 80 people lost their lives on the last hour of the year, 11:52pm.  In six days there will be a trio of yellow flowers on the sidewalk.  In seven days there will be more yellow flowers next to them.  And as the days progress the flowers line up, wrapping around the base of the building, moving forward with life.  Eventually the flowers reach their beginning, and so the day begins again, always surviving the coldest of nights.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make my year <3


End file.
